CIGAR

I have lost the capacity 

for Art. But of course, 

unlike her 

I have never had the capacity for

sincere, unselfish tears

and honest Anger. Isn’t that

where it all begins?

I watch as the oblong of her mouth moves, 

I watch those lips that often part and give way

to a toothy grin. I watch those lips- intently- 

as they let forth words that speak of war, 

Of the unspeakable: 

31257 butchered and hospitals mined, 

lives torn asunder; families torn apart

In the bitter cold. 

And them that do it suffer nothing. 

She speaks of grief and defiance, of

ice cream in summer in a field of red viburnums.

So much to know, so little that can be known, 

but the daily miracle of revelation in that voice

that reads to me.  A voice that returns,

mercifully, having stormed out yet again as though

it were for the very last time. She laughs, and sunflowers

bloom. 

Am I needed? Will I ever be? I want more and am beset

By tears and yearning. No importa: the only thing to do

is to Wait.

 

One day, the Guernicas will cease to multiply.

One day, justice will be served.

One day, I will bear witness

with my own eyes, on her lips, 

at long last: Peace. Hakuna Matata.